


Mr. President

by gabrielstolethetardis



Series: Destiel One-Shots [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Presidency, M/M, President Castiel, President Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielstolethetardis/pseuds/gabrielstolethetardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean Winchester becomes president of the United States of America, he realizes suddenly that's he's made a horrible mistake and does anything he can to become impeached, which proves to be quite difficult.</p><p>Inspired by this post:</p><p>http://schmergo.tumblr.com/post/81637958962/schmergo-i-want-a-movie-about-a-guy-who-runs</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. President

Dean spun once in the plush black armchair, letting his eyes trace the lavish office, drinking in the extravagance with a ghost of a smile touching his lips. The silence enveloped him, a welcome gift after the absolute chaos surrounding his inauguration, the _horrible_ speech he’d had to give. Just thinking about it made Dean grimace and stop spinning, placing both of his hands face-down on the shining wooden desk in front of him and letting out a long breath.

Alistair had warned him, before he’d even decided to run for president, that it would be hard. “It’s like you’re a new species of bug—everyone needs to inspect you, classify you, pick you apart, until they’ll accept you,” he’d said after Dean mentioned absently that running wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Now, Dean knew exactly what he’d meant—and he’d only spent a day in office.

A loud knock resonated from the large double doors that led into his office, and before Dean could give them entrance, a pair of men dressed in all black pushed into his office, dark brown folders clutched in hand. “Mr. President, there’s an emergency,” one said, his voice flat and emotionless.

“Already?” Dean asked, surprised, as the other man pressed the folder into his hands with more force than necessary.

“Russia has begun testing of its prototype ray gun, but the power fueling it has been reported to be much more than necessary for that caliber of technology. One of our undercover agents reports plans to assault the capital.”

Dean pulled papers filled with words and diagrams from the folder and tried to scan them as the men kept talking, filling his ears with talk of foreign crisis and terrorist attacks, but the loud beating of his heart drowned out most of their words.

With a jolt, Dean realized the men had stopped talking and were waiting for an answer of some sort. He tried to remember what they’d said last—something about deploying troops to Russia?—and managed to compose himself enough to say, with some semblance of calm, “Tell Harvelle to deploy a few squadrons to the testing site under a flag of truce. If anything goes amiss, they have permission to fire.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” both men said at once before ghosting out of his office, letting the doors swing shut loudly behind them.

Dean stared at the doors for a moment. Then, like a puppet suddenly cut from its strings, he fell forward, his forehead connecting with his desk with a soft thump, and a low groan dropped from his mouth. “Fuck.”

After a few days of Dean struggling to keep afloat, he decided there was only one option: he would have to get impeached. The idea came to him in the middle of a meeting with some guys in suits that he didn’t recognize in the slightest, causing him to sit straight and exclaim, “That’s it!”

The men stopped talking, glancing over at him with furrowed eyebrows. “Excuse me, Mr. President?” one of them said, a touch of surprise coloring his voice.

Dean was about to apologize when he stopped himself, considering his options. If he was going to try to get impeached, why not start now? He took a moment to think of the worst possible thing to do in this situation—what were they talking about? Russia again?—before saying, “Withdraw all of our troops from the Middle East and Russia and send them to Canada.”

More than a touch of surprise entered the man’s voice when he responded, “To Canada, sir? I don’t believe that would be the ideal plan of action—“

“Yes!” Dean exclaimed, slamming his fist on the table and causing a few of the men to jump. “We’re declaring war on Canada!”

“Sir, only Congress can declare war—“

“Send the troops anyway!”

“Mr. President—“

“ _Sir_ Mr. President!”

The man looked pained. “ _Sir_ Mr. President, I respectfully advise you against this course of action.”

“Advice noted, and ignored.” Dean leaned forward, pouring as much intensity as he could muster into his next statement. “Send the troops to Canada, now.”

The man’s face faded into helplessness. “Yes, Mr.— _Sir_ Mr. President.”

Dean sat back in his chair and grinned. It wouldn’t be long now.

* * *

 

A week later, Dean sat in the exact same chair, gaping at his Secretary of War, Jo Harvelle, as she informed him of the undercover nuclear base Canada had been preparing to use, their crosshairs set directly on the White House. “And to think, we never would have even gone there if it hadn’t been for you!” she exclaimed, to which Dean could only nod, stunned.

Everywhere he went, it was pats on the back and wide grins, even from Alistair, who never smiled. “I knew you were going to do well,” he said, which Dean thought was the biggest lie he’d ever heard. Then, Alistair said, “I’m proud to be your Vice President,” and Dean corrected himself.

He spent the next few hours in his office, trying to think of something bigger to do that would get him impeached. He didn’t want to try anything illegal—he didn’t want to go to _jail_ , just out of office—and eventually he got so frustrated he flipped on the television, his eyes staring disconnectedly at the screen as a Doritos commercial played.

“What the hell,” Dean muttered, shrugging his shoulders. “I guess I’ll ban Doritos.”

The next day, Dean called a press conference and stared right at the camera as he announced his proposed ban. The crowd went deathly quiet for a split second before erupting in loud shouts of questions, microphones shoved in his face, desperate arms fighting for attention, but Dean had had enough attention for a lifetime, so he pushed his way out of the crowd into the secluded backstage and leaned against the wall to catch his breath.

This was it. This was going to be the one to push America off the edge. If there was anything Americans loved more than freedom, it was food, and Doritos stood at the top of the list of favorite foods. Dean let himself smile before fighting his way back to his car and heading back toward the White House.

* * *

 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Dean exclaimed, holding the morning newspaper in his hands and staring at the front page in disbelief. In big, bold letters, it read, “DORITOS NUMBER ONE CAUSE OF CANCER, NATURAL DISASTERS,” with a subheading attributing the discovery to Dean’s ban. “You’ve got to be fucking with me. I did _not_ just cure cancer.”

“Don’t be so cocky,” Alistair sighed as he walked past, grabbing the newspaper from Dean’s hands and tossing it in the trash. “You just got lucky.”

Dean whipped around on Alistair, frustrated beyond belief that he’d been messing up all his life and now he couldn’t even get kicked out of the White House, and shouted, “You’re under arrest! Guards! Seize him!”

Alistair turned to face Dean, his face contorted into a mix of surprise and fear. “What are you doing?”

“This man is… this man is a terrorist!” Dean shouted, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Was this a crime? Was false accusation a crime? Oh, God, Dean hoped not.

Alistair looked ready to pass out. “What? I’m not— hey!”

Two secret service agents appeared out of nowhere and grabbed Alistair by the arms, beginning to pull him away from Dean. “Hey, stop!” Alistair protested, fighting their grip. “I’m not a terrorist! I’m your Vice President! Let go of me this _instant_!”

Dean watched, his eyes wide with fear, as the agents pulled Alistair out of the room, the door cutting of Alistair’s pleas as it swung shut. He pulled his robe tighter around him before throwing it off, standing there in a plain white T-shirt and plaid pajama pants and shaking uncontrollably.

Well. At least it’d get him impeached.

“Yeah, and _arrested_ ,” Dean muttered, mentally slapping himself. How had he even _won_ the election?

* * *

 

“You mean I didn’t actually _win?_ ” Dean exclaimed, standing outside the courthouse with his Secretary of State Charlie Bradbury, who had just informed him that Alistair had been convicted of terrorism and rigging the election in Dean’s favor. “Then why am I still here?” Maybe _this_ would be enough to get him kicked out.

Charlie gave Dean a sideways glance. “Because you’re probably one of the best presidents we’ve ever had?”

Dean stared blankly at her. “Excuse me?”

“Have you even _looked_ at your approval ratings?” Charlie exclaimed, gesturing widely. “You’ve got 100% approval! That’s never happened before _ever_.”

“But I haven’t even—“ _I haven’t even been doing the right thing on purpose._

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” Charlie interrupted. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.” She turned to leave, but then swiveled back around. “Oh, I almost forgot. The president of Canada is here to see you.”

“What? Here, right now?”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “No, in the White House.”

Dean’s cheeks burned red. “Yes, of course.” He left quickly, wondering when on Earth his life got so weird. Alistair, a terrorist? For ISIS, they said, planning on taking down the government from the inside. Dean hadn’t even _known_.

Once Dean got back to the White House, he approached his office with caution, cracking open the door to see three men standing next to his desk—two in midnight suits, one in a deep red suit. Taking a deep breath, Dean entered the office and offered them a tight-lipped smile. “Hello, I’m Dean Winchester. It’s nice to meet you.” It sounded rehearsed—as it was—but they accepted his outstretched hand anyway one by one.

“I’m sure you know my name as well, as you knew enough to raid my country, but I’ll introduce myself as well,” the man in the red suit said, fixing Dean with icy blue eyes. “I’m Castiel Novak.”

They spent the next hour discussing diplomatic relations, trying to work out a way to avoid total war between the two countries. Dean wanted more than anything to simply shake hands and call it good enough, but that wouldn’t solve his problem. He needed something _big_ , something the public couldn’t ignore. Declaring war on Canada again wouldn’t cut it—he needed to go _bigger_. The public already distrusted Canada—they were essentially America’s enemy now, the new ISIS—so how could Dean use that to his advantage…?

“Can you dismiss your bodyguards?” Dean asked suddenly, cutting Castiel off mid-sentence. “I feel that our negotiations would go smoother without an audience.”

Castiel looked hesitant, and Dean tried to look reassuring. His hands were shaking underneath his desk, and he tried to keep them steady. God, this was a horrible idea. Then, when Castiel nodded and waved his guards away, turning his head for a moment, Dean reached up and flipped on the live video feed switch that broadcasted from the security camera in his office to every federal government official’s phone or tablet. He retracted his hand just in time for Castiel to turn back around and give Dean a warm, slightly friendlier smile. “Where were we?”

Dean hoped to God he hadn’t been reading Castiel wrong throughout the meeting as he leaned forward, grabbed Castiel by the lapels of his suit, and pulled him in roughly, their lips connecting awkwardly as Dean struggled to keep himself elevated over the wide desk. It became increasingly easier, however, as Castiel moved to prop himself up, sinking into the kiss rather than pulling away from it like Dean had half-expected him to do, and Dean almost forgot that the cameras were rolling because he actually kinda _liked_ this.

Then, Castiel pulled away, not out of disgust but out of embarrassment, and said, “I was going to nuke your country.”

Dean considered this. “Yeah.”

“You would have died.”

“Also yeah.”

“I could still do it.”

“Are you sure?” Dean hoped to God he would say yes, that he was still the enemy, because _that_ had to be enough to get him at least put on trial.

“No,” Castiel admitted, staring at Dean. “I think we should be allies.”

Dean slammed his fist on the table, knocking the video broadcast switch off as he did so. “God Damnit!”

Castiel straightened, surprise flashing across his face. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Every time I try to mess up, I just end up making things better!” Dean let out a long groan. “I just want to be impeached.”

Castiel was silent for a moment. Then, a short laugh escaped him, and Dean looked up to see him grinning, running a hand through his hair. “What?” Dean asked crankily.

“You know, you could just resign.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean grumbled, sinking back in his chair. “I can’t resign.”

Castiel stared at Dean. “Yes, you can. It’s in your Constitution. Why don’t you know this?”

“Because it’s not real. You’re just making it up.”

A minute later, Dean’s forehead hit his desk loudly, and he let out a long, strangled groan. “You mean I could’ve just quit this entire time?”

Castiel tucked his phone back in his suit pocket, shrugging. “Yeah.”

Dean stood abruptly. “So, is there like a form I have to fill out, or…?”

“Hey, stop for a moment, okay?” Castiel said, standing and putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Why don’t you just finish the term and then stay out of the running? You’ve hardly been in office—it gets better, I promise.”

Suddenly, a succession of loud knocks sounded at the office doors, followed by excited shouts and the rattling of the doors against their hinges. Dean fixed Castiel with a dry look. “It gets better?” he repeated, glancing pointedly at the doors. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

Castiel laughed as the doors caved inward, letting in a flood of officials, including Charlie who practically tackled Dean in her excitement. “Oh, this is so exciting!” she gushed, red hair spilling out of its tight buns. “The first gay president!” Then, as if remembering herself—perhaps prompted by Dean’s bright red cheeks and sharp glare—she amended, “Of course, the alliance is optimal also. Well done, Mr. President.”

Dean heard those words many more times in the rest of his four-year term. Every time he considered resigning, something happened to change his mind, often a result of his purely accidental executive tactics. First, Russia and ISIS withdrew from hostile affairs from the United States after Dean accidentally ordered the detonation of several atomic bombs upon their headquarters. Then, he discovered a cure for diabetes after knocking a bottle of vodka into Jo’s indoor herb garden and neglecting to clean it up for a month. In shear desperation to do something, _anything_ , that might impact America negatively, he reduced federal taxes to almost nothing; the headline the next month read “UNEMPLOYMENT, POVERTY AT ALL-TIME LOW,” commending him for his out-of-the-box economic tactics.

And, of course, the moment Castiel whispered, “Well done, Mr. President,” as he slipped a ring on Dean’s finger, hardly audible among the raucous applause of the large audience of Canadians and Americans gathered in the large stone church that sat directly on the American-Canadian border in Montana. Dean rolled his eyes as he put the other silver band on Castiel’s finger, but his hands trembled slightly as he weaved his fingers through Castiel’s and pressed a short, nervous kiss to Castiel’s lips.

“You as well, Mr. President,” he murmured as he pulled away, and Castiel’s face broke into a soft grin.

“You don’t seem to unhappy with the title,” he teased, beginning to lead Dean back down the aisle and out of the masses of people into the crisp fall air. “Maybe you could run for another term.”

“Shut up, Mr. President,” Dean muttered, and Castiel grinned the entire way back to the capital.


End file.
